The Family Business, Part I

Who: John Smith
Where: Earth, 2104
When: Shortly after being fired from Radio Shack
John Smith trudged home to his run-down apartment in the bad end of
town. Twisting his key into the lock, he slowly wandered into the
interior of his living space. Sure it was probably being targeted by
numerous bazookoids from one of the friendly neighborhood gangs or
another, but the rent was too cheap to pass up.
Falling down onto his bed, Smith passed out and was envelopped by the darkness.
He was in a white room. He strained to make out the figures, identify
some of the voices he heard babbling around him, but this proved
impossible. Trying to sit up, he discoved that he was restrained,
strapped down to a stainless steel operating table.
Several white laboratory coat wearing, black goggled and gloved
technicians were waving various electronic sensing devices at his
head, while others communicated with each other in a rapid-fire
scientific language that John had no grasp on.
At last his pained ears located a conversation that sounded like english.
"Is it him?"
"Is he the one we need?"
"Negative."
"Are you certain?"
"Ninety-eight point seven percent certain."
"We were sure this time..."
"He's a Smith all right, just not the right one."
"Not yet anyway."
Smith twisted his head to see the speakers.
"Quickly! He's coming to!"
"Send him back!"
"Inversion in ten, nine, eight, seven-"
John Smith sat bolt upright in his bed, a cold sweat running down his
face. This was the fourth time now, the same dream, the same goggled
faces...
Those voices, so familiar...